Arranged by Catherine McKenzie

Author:Catherine McKenzie
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2012-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Don’t Feed the Animals

I’m sitting next to Jack on a bus, trying to get through On the Road while he reads my book. He’s been bugging me daily to read it, and I finally gave in this morning, handing over the pages I got from my editor before I left. I was supposed to read them one last time, but I’ve been a little preoccupied.

We’re on our way to a lost Mayan city a few hours from our hotel. We’ve spent the last two days hanging out by the pool, reading, eating, drinking, talking. I’ve turned various shades of red, while Jack turns browner by the day. At night, we’ve spent hours . . . “necking” is the only word that comes to mind, with all that implies. In fact, I frequently feel like we’re in high school. I’ve had too much to drink, eaten too much food, blurted out all kinds of things I’d never say when sober, and my lips hurt from kissing.

Jack arrived at my door at six-thirty this morning with a backpack on his back and a large to-go cup in his hands. The dark aroma wafted into my tired brain.

“Oh, thank God. Where did you score this?”

He handed me the cup. “One of the staff took pity on me. Watch it, it’s hot.”

I took a large sip anyway, scalding my tongue. “Shit.”

“Told you.”

“Fuck it. It was worth it.”

“Junkie.”

“You know it, baby.”

“You’re in a good mood this morning.”

“I guess I am.”

He gave me the crook of his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

With my arm looped through his, we walked to the front door of the hotel. The air smelled different on the other side of the hotel: dustier, less salty, hotter. I hesitated on the threshold. “Do you realize we haven’t left this place for days?”

“Scared?”

“No, I just have that feeling I get when I’ve been holed up in my apartment, writing. You know, when you go outside for the first time and everything around you looks new or different, like something has shifted slightly while you were away.”

“Deep thoughts for so early in the morning.”

“Forget it.”

“You ready to see what’s out there?”

“Sure.”

We met our tour guide for the day—Marco—in the parking lot. He’s in his early forties, has light brown hair, and is wearing a white Puma baseball cap. He speaks English well but with the local accent.

We clambered onto the bus, tossing our backpacks in the overhead bins above our seats. And now it’s an hour into a bumpy ride.

I’m too nervous to pay attention to Sal Paradise on his speed-driven journey. I glance over at Jack. He’s wearing a khaki desert shirt and a Panama hat that’s a little too small. My manuscript is in his hands. He smiles, and then a few minutes later, he laughs out loud.

“What do you think?” I ask.

Jack lowers the manuscript. “Anne, I’ve told you a million times, I’m not going to tell you until I’ve finished it.”

“Just give me a hint. Please?”

Jack brings my hand to his lips.

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